"Shall I take the babby home with me!" persisted Wood, in a tone between jest and earnest. I left him in charge of Quilt Arnold and Rykhart Van Galgebrok—the skipper I spoke of— with strict orders to shoot him if he made any further attempt at escape; and they're not lads—the latter especially—to be trifled with. They could not have called it a fatal motor accident if he had not been dead. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac.
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